Gone Even As I Remember You
by Travithian Axile
Summary: Artemis knows that there is something wrong with him but he can't figure out what. PostEC.


Disclaimer: I have no claim to Artemis Fowl or any of the series' characters, who belong to Eoin Colfer, and 'Iris' belongs to John Atkinson Grimshaw.

Summary: post-EC. Artemis can't figure out what's wrong with him. No pairings, just a lot of thinking.

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Gone Even As I Remember You

In the room all was dark save for a spot of yellow-bright light in the corner where a boy on the edge of manhood sat, head bowed in concentration, fingers deft and busy and impossibly delicate. His eyes were dark blue, but in the light a multitude of colors blossomed within their depths; peacock green, violets, black. His face was the pale hue of one who has stayed indoors half his life, vampiric white. Black hair, short and well groomed, provided a striking contrast against his skin.

The boy's name was Artemis Fowl the Second, and he was a genius, and well-known to those who lived within shadier circles. No wonder, for he was barely fourteen and had already made himself known.

He was painting, and there were smudges of vibrant color on the tips of his fingers and face. Outside it was night and the rain tapped a steady tattoo on the windowpane but his brush continued to move across the canvas in small, steady strokes, his every motion tight and precise. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, all the more obvious for the alabaster hue of his skin. He looked terribly tired, yet he resembled one of the great artists of old as they sat through the night doing what they loved; for them only the work existed and nothing else, not the rain, not the chair beneath them, just the swish, swish, swish of the brush as every line of brilliant color formed a picture filled with life.

Artemis Fowl, however, was not a painter. He employed that skill only occasionally; one of the varied skills that came with his sky-high IQ. He copied famous paintings and sold them for the prices the originals were worth. But it was not to be said that the buyers did not get their money's worth. Artemis' counterfeits were every bit as good as the real ones, if not better.

Tonight he was repainting 'Iris' by John Atkinson Grimshaw. Lately his work had taken a supernatural bent, involving fairies, goblins, dragons, trolls, painted in a moment of whimsy. He didn't know why. His mind was not the secure place it once was. Sometimes he dreamed, strange, half-remembered fleeting images, of an icy wasteland, hulking shapes that drifted in and out of memory, and tinfoil hats. It had all begun a week ago when he awoke, and for one beautiful, blessed instant, absolute peace had been his. For once, his scheming mind had been put to rest, and he had been a child again.

Then the dreams faded, and reality set in.

So now he was back here, under his parents' noses. He painted in a delicate wing, gossamer thin and glistening as it dried. That was insensible. Years of evolution underground would have deprived the fairies of their wings…

Artemis cocked his head. What had he been thinking? Sometimes he felt as though there was a black hole in his brain, sucking in all past memories. There were so many times, as he turned, half-expecting to see, a shimmer in the air, a familiar voice constructed of dreams of hope calling to him. A gold medallion, around his neck, glittering like the spark of decency he supposedly possessed.

But when he turned his head to look, there was nothing, just dust and the wind sighing as though echoing the emptiness that resounded deep within his heart.

(Remember me, because I won't remember you.)

Artemis shrugged it off and proceeded with his job. The fairy hovered in place over a dark marshland filled with shadows. A still river, faintly shining, snaked beneath her, and the vague outlines of trees formed the background. Carefully the boy drew the brush across, adding in a tendril a dark hair.

(Where ancient oak and twisted water meet)

A headache was building up in his skull, drumming against his temples. The boy's hand jerked and he nearly slashed a dark brown line across the picture, which would have ruined all his hours of hard work. He shuddered, wiping away the sweat on his brow, and studied the fairy, wings spread, dark auburn hair falling over her shoulders.

(red hair, green eyes…short)

(Please remember!) the trapped memories cried out, but their owner ignored them and continued, oblivious to their desperate call.

I'm too tired, Artemis thought. And he stood up silently, cat-quick, and switched off the light. He stepped out of the storage room and headed up the grand staircase to his room. He pulled off his coat and studied the view from the window, the rain turning everything outside the glass dark and soggy.

(And he was standing outside, and a coin was in his hand, a shiny gold coin, heavy and reassuring, a hole through its very center. Someone was with him…but who?)

His memories fought harder than ever, but it wasn't enough.

Artemis padded to his bed, lay down and slept. And in his dreams he and an auburn-haired person too mature to be a child and too small to be an adult jumped onto a green chain and cold winds tore the skin from his face with its freezing touch. And in the morning he would wake up and remember it and think it was all a dream.

Perhaps one day he would remember. Perhaps never at all.

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Author's Ending Note: Hope you enjoyed this ficlet. Pls be easy on me, 'cos this is my first Arty fanfiction. Don't forget to review before leaving, thank you.

Travithian Axile signing off


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